Pax Imperia (The Redemption Trilogy) (18 page)

“He looked pissed,” came the noncommittal comment from one of the group. “Do you think we should warn the Admiral?”

A great deal of clearing throats and averting of gazes followed that question, as nobody wanted to be the one on the receiving end of their new Emperor’s wrath.

*****

Admiral Anastasia Romanov, Commander of the 8
^th
Confederation Fleet, put her first cup of coffee of the morning back down, taking considerable care not to spill any of the contents across the multitude of datapads that covered every square inch of her desk. In some places they were piled three or four high, along with reports from the various Fleet Captains and Department Heads received overnight. Included also was the usual mountain of electronic paperwork, movement and procurement orders that a fleet of this size generated daily. She was certain that in the end it would be the paperwork that killed her, long before she could ever die of natural causes...

The chime of her office door rescued her from the latest personnel movement order she was reviewing, and she was just about to call for the person to enter when, to her surprise, the door slid open. Without her acknowledgement Commander, no Emperor Radec now, she mentally corrected herself, strode into the room. It looked as if he had not even broken stride upon approaching the door. She idly wondered what he would have done had the door not opened? Probably just walked through it, she decided with a smile. However, this soon disappeared from her face when she noticed his expression.

He looked like he was preparing to attend a funeral and, based on the ferocity of the gaze that he pinned her with, she could only assume that it was her own.

Hurriedly getting to her feet, she stepped out from behind her desk. “Commander, Emperor Radec. What can I do for you?” she asked hesitantly, a note of concern in her voice.

“Kneel,” Jon uttered in a dark, deadly tone of voice. “Kneel before your Emperor and explain to me why I should spare your life.”

Romanov went deathly pale at this declaration, as he looked livid, as if he wanted nothing more than to draw his sword, there and then, and end her life.

“Kneel,” he ordered, his voice ringing with command.

Romanov was already on her knees, before she even consciously acknowledged the order. A moment later a datapad clattered onto the floor in front of her.

“Pick it up and read it to me,” he hissed.

She tentatively picked up the device, her eyes flicking across the words, before her gaze finally came to rest on her electronic signature at the bottom of the device. “It’s a personnel movement order, signed and dated by me yesterday,” she explained in confusion. “Ordering a marine tactical team to be transferred to the
Relentless
. But I don’t understand—?”

“A couple of hours ago that team broke into my personal quarters and tried to kill me in my sleep,” he interrupted her. “They failed. But before the last marine died, he confessed everything to me.”

Romanov looked up from the device into her new masters’ steely-grey eyes and only saw death in them. She had been wrong after all. It was not the paperwork in the end that was going to kill her. Instead the implement of her death stood there in front of her.

The next sound she heard was the silken whisper, as he withdrew his blade from its sheath, lifting it over her head. “I don’t know anything about this. This is a standard inter-fleet movement order. I must sign a dozen of these every day. I know nothing about what happened. I had nothing—”

Again he interrupted her. “You are the Admiral for this fleet are you not? Do you or do you not take full responsibility for the actions of your ships and crew?”

His piercing gaze did not seem to be so much staring at her, as into her. Into some secret place inside of her that was personal and private. Where she had long since buried all her fear, locked it away and thrown away the key. However all the doors in her mind seemed to be suddenly flung open, as he continued to stare at her intently until he reached the core of her anguish. Romanov closed her eyes in despair, focusing on his words and not his terrifying gaze. After all, was his not the pertinent question? And in her heart she already knew the answer. But how could she say that? It would condemn her to death. “As Admiral of this fleet, I take ultimate responsibility for the actions of my ships and crew. While I was not involved in these actions and knew nothing about them, ultimate responsibility falls on me.”

For a long while there was no other sound in the room except for her harsh breathing. She closed her eyes in the sure and certain knowledge she was going to die. With a whistle from the sword near her ear, she could imagine its owner raising it above her head. She had heard the stories in the fleet about these swords and knew it would cut through her neck as smoothly and easily as if her flesh were the finest silk. The only thought that kept going around her head was that she would not feel anything as she died.

The touch to her neck resulted in her eyes suddenly opening wide in fear, terrified this would be the last thing she ever felt. Only for her gaze to come to rest on the gentle, sympathetic eyes of the tormented man standing over her.

It took her a few moments to realise his hands were empty. The sound she had assumed was the blade being raised above her head, was obviously him returning the blade to its sheath. Instead one hand rested on her neck, the other hovered in front of her, palm face up, open, obviously a peace offering.

Not wanting to give any further offence, she reached up to the olive branch, grasping it firmly and effortlessly as he raised her up. The hand carefully encircled her waist as she almost collapsed, her legs suddenly turning to jelly beneath her. The shock quickly hit when she realised just how close to death she had come, but she felt herself being gently pushed back a couple of steps, until she felt the edge of the desk cut into the small of her back. Jon raised her onto the desk, ignoring the clatter of datapads that went spilling onto the floor at this action. Her eyes drifted shut, as she felt the pressure increase slightly on her neck, urging her to lower her head.

“Breathe deeply. You will feel better in a few minutes,” his reassuring voice urged her, from somewhere at her side. A few moments later, she felt his hands leave her body and, for a crazy moment felt bereft of his touch. She was amazed at how quickly his persona had changed, as only a few minutes before she had been absolutely certain he planned to take her life.

Less than a minute later she felt a glass being pushed into her hands. Opening her eyes she observed the cut glass, its contents an amber liquid, now firmly in her grasp.

“Drink it. It will help you calm your nerves,” Jon reassured her, pointing to the glass in her hands.

She tried her best to lift the glass to her lips, but it was difficult as her hands were shaking so violently. Just when she was worried that she was going to drop the glass, Jon’s hands encircled her own, helping her lift the glass to her lips. She noted he had such nice hands, so long, warm and expressive. She wondered what they would be like softly caressing her cheek. Shaking her head at such ridiculous thoughts, she took a sip of the liquid then almost spat it out, as the burning sensation spread down her throat before hitting her stomach.

“Ugh, Scotch. I detest the stuff,” she gagged.

“People respond quickest to substances that they do not like,” Jon replied mildly, unsurprised at her reaction. “Sterling mentioned to me that you hated the taste of whiskey before I disembarked the
Protector
. Now finish it all.”

“You and Frank Sterling were discussing me?” she asked curiously, taking another sip from the glass. For the detestable drink did seem to help calm her nerves. She could not understand her own reaction as she had never in all her years in the navy ever fallen so completely apart. As she had stared into his gaze, she had never felt so deathly afraid. It had stripped everything from her, leaving her completely bare and vulnerable.

“He told me that I could trust you,” Jon replied.

“This is what you do to people that you trust?”

“You should see what I do to people that I don’t trust,” came back the evasive response.

“So what changed your mind? Why didn’t you carry out your threat?” she asked, amazed at her own boldness.

“You were telling the truth. You knew nothing about the attack in my quarters,” came back the confident reply.

“You read minds now too?”

“I didn’t need to read your mind. I could see the surprise in your eyes, even when you thought I was going to kill you. Nobody can hide the truth, not at the very end. That was why I had to convince you, to make you absolutely certain that I was going to kill you. It was the only way I could be completely sure. I’m sorry for frightening you. I truly am.”

“I’ll forgive you, eventually,” she smiled, finishing the last of the Scotch, pleased to note her hands no longer shook. “So you said that the last marine confessed. What did he tell you?” she asked curiously.

“Nothing much,” Jon replied, frustrated. “He didn’t know anything. He was part of a black ops team. They received their orders anonymously. Noting the date, time and location. They had orders to kill me. The orders were accompanied by all the correct authorisation codes, so they certainly thought that they were valid.”

“I’ll do some digging, see if I can back trace the origin of those movement orders. After all somebody must have initiated them, somewhere.”

Jon nodded his head, lost in thought for a moment, before he refocused, obviously having reached some sort of decision. “Notify the rest of your fleet, Admiral. It is time for us to depart.”

Admiral Romanov looked up in surprise, as until then he had seemed undecided of their next course of action. “Our destination?”

“Altair,” Jon replied firmly, turning in preparation to leave. “I’m sure that my home planet will want to welcome their most infamous son with open arms,” Jon added sarcastically.

“As you command, my Emperor,” Romanov responded formally.

“Jon,” he replied coming to a halt before the doors to her office. “You may address me as Jon from now on. I think you have deserved that after what just happened.”

“Anna,” she replied. “I will only address you by your first name, if you do likewise.”

Jon turned to face her and, with a boyish smile, bowed his head slightly, in respect at being given permission to use her first name. “Anna,” he breathed softly, before turning once again, stepping through the doors and departing.

Meanwhile Anna sat on her desk for a long time after he had left, observing the closed door thoughtfully. It was only much later she realised that she had been smiling the whole time.

*****

After the meeting with Anna, Jon found himself aimlessly wandering the decks of the
Relentless
. While still one of the younger battleships in the fleet, at
barely
seventy-five years old, the ship’s full complement still ran to almost three thousand crew, with over one hundred officers. Hence it was still going to take almost twenty hours for the ship to finally get underway.

Not knowing how many others might have been sent the same instructions as the last group of assassins, Jon decided the best course of action was not to stay in one place for too long. If he had no idea where he was going to go next, then how could any potential assailants know?

For hours he walked the endless decks of the massive warship until, without realising it, he arrived at the flight deck. He stood at one end of the deck, far out of the way of the usual hustle and bustle of arriving and departing ships. This was where the
Endless Light
had been stowed since their arrival yesterday.

Jon circled the shuttle a number of times, running his hand, with feather-light touches, across the pristine white surface of the ship. With the destruction of the
Eternal Light
, this ship’s twin, almost a year before, and the loss of Sofia and Marcus, Jon realised he and the shuttle now had a kinship of loss. They were the last two survivors, and all that was left of an Imperial family, a dynasty that had spanned five centuries, over several generations. When he eventually died, they would pass into the history books. Jon wondered what the historians would write, if history would look kindly on them or, like so many others, consider them just another abject failure.

He was not surprised when, upon reaching the entrance to the shuttle, the door slid silently open. Quietly entering into the shuttle, he made his way towards the front, running his fingers across the rich upholstery, tracing the outline of the Aurelius family crest. The entrance to the cockpit opened at his approach and he stepped inside, slipping easily into the pilot’s seat.

Letting his eyes close, Jon remembered happier times, piloting father and daughter between ships, worlds or systems. Surrounded by the safe, protective embrace of the other fighters that made up the Praetorian Guard.

His family.

“Commander?” The voice drifted through the cockpit, reminding Jon so much of Sofia that it hurt, but knowing instead the voice was a computer synthesis of Marcus’ long dead wife.

“Yes?”

“My sensors are detecting an abnormally low body temperature, along with low blood pressure and an irregular breathing pattern in you. These fall within my pre-programmed procedures of a medical emergency. Do you wish me to signal for medical assistance?”

Jon smiled, wondering if the ship was being overly protective, or if this was the ship’s idea of a joke. Perhaps Marcus had also programmed it with a sense of humour. “I am simply overly tired,” he replied. “There is no need to broadcast a medical emergency.”

“Then I would recommend that you activate your sleep cycle?”

Jon did laugh out loud at this comment, wishing it were that easy for people. “I find myself unable to sleep,” he explained quietly. “I have bad dreams,” wondering what the ship thought of that idea. Somehow he doubted the ship understood the concept of dreams, let alone bad ones.

He was surprised when, instead of replying, a simple melody began to play through the ship’s audio system. He was even more amazed when he recognised the tune. Sofia had sung it to him several weeks before, one evening as he lay in her arms, his head pounding following a long day trailing her father around the Senate.